Winter and Spring
by thornfield
Summary: One-shot: Illness, love, life, and hope.


WINTER

The man leaned against the cold lead-paned glass window and pressed his head as hard into the murky glass as he could without breaking the glass. The world beyond the window was a frozen, dead wasteland, deeply blanketed in snow. He sighed, a deep sigh that came from the depths of his soul, from the depths of despair. He knew in his heart that he was losing her, slowly at first but more quickly now, and dread and sadness filled his heart. He fought back tears and swallowed the sobs that threatened to burst from his chest. He knew he had to go back into the adjacent room, but his feet were as heavy as iron and he had to will himself to move, one foot before the other.

He found himself back in the room, where she lay in their bed, her breathing labored, her body still and slack. The air in the room smelled faintly of medicine, and there was a chill in the air despite the warmth that made its way in off the fire in the hearth. She was dressed her nightclothes. As he stood over her, observing how she struggled to breathe, he touched her hand. It was cold. He pressed her hand between both of his own, rubbing it to warm it. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. "Matoaka. Pocahontas. Rebecca," he whispered to her, feeling tears sting his eyes anew. "My love."

Upon being addressed by her name, she opened her eyes. They were glassy with high fever, but she focused on him. Her gaze searched his face, sensed his incredible sadness and overpowering love. She smiled. "John," she whispered.

"Hush, now. Don't speak," he ordered, the sternness of his voice cut through by a threatening sob. "Hush."

He gently tucked her arm back across her stomach and patted her hand. He then crossed to the other side of the bed, removed his shoes, and climbed onto the bed so he could be beside her. He gathered her into his arms, letting her rest her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair and spoke softly to her. He heard the rattling of the fluid in her lungs with each breath that she drew. When a fit of coughing seized her, he helped her sit up, and he rubbed her back in firm, repeating circles. With a damp cloth he wiped away the blood-flecked fluid that trickled from her mouth and splattered her hands. He knew she was scared and told her not to be afraid.

Neither of them knew how to best treat the malady she suffered from. For a few weeks, doctors had watched her gradually weaken and offered little but vague pronouncements. The coughing subsided and she lapsed into feverish shivers. In time these too stopped and she could lay there quietly and relatively comfortably. This episode was just like the others had been. He prayed desperately to a god he was no longer sure he believed in, that she would get better. They had so much to live for.

Her weak voice brought him out of his gloom. "I love you," she told him. "I love you so very, very much. More than I can tell you. My darling. I'm sorry I did not always convey this to you, but know that it was always true. John . . . John . . ." His wife's voice faded into a whisper as she grasped his hair with one hand and let it slide through and down the side of his face.

Her words and her touch were like small knives into his soul. He began to cry. Tears slipped down his face and he buried his face in her hair. A memory flooded over him—he had held her like this once, stroking her hair as he lightly pressed his lips to it. It had been a tentative, tender embrace. At the time it had been enough but now thinking of it was torture, because he knew she would die in his arms now, grow cold and never be there to greet him with a smile or a kiss or an embrace.

"Do not leave me, my angel. Please. You know I have always loved you, from the moment I saw you. We have sustained one another. You have brought me so much joy."

There was no audible reply, but she nestled herself deeper into his embrace, snuggling into the crook of his arm as a calm stillness overtook her and gathering blackness forced her to close her eyes.

SPRING

Three months later, the same bed stood empty, draped and tucked with fresh linens and blankets. John stood in the adjacent hallway, by the window, but this time leaned out of it, breathing in the crisp, early spring air, watching his frosty breath dissipate. There was still snow on the ground but green shoots poked through in odd places and icicles dripped as they died, turned into puddles by the gradually strengthening sun. He heard the sound of the heavy latch on the front door opening, footsteps over the threshold. His heart filled with a lightness he had not felt in a long time. Briskly he walked to the door, and then he stood face to face with his beautiful young wife, the kindness and warmth in her smile reflected in her shining eyes.

"Come inside, out of the cold, " he said, sternly but gently, pulling her inside not ungently by the arm.

"There's always new life in the spring, after the last snow. Wait, and you'll see soon enough," she said, as he hurriedly fussed about trying to warm her, stripping off the damp outer layers she wore and wrapping her in a blanket. As they sat warming themselves by the fire in the hearth that crackled and popped, and talked of inconsequential things—the cycle of life in the town, day in and day out—he knew they had so much to live for. It would be a good life.

He gazed at her in the firelight. She had recovered from the terrible illness—watery lungs and fever—with surprising strength. Though it had been many months now, he fussed over her constantly, urging her to keep up her strength and plying her with various medicines. He had even taken some to ward off whatever had plagued her. She had color in her cheeks again but did seem tired.

"You look well, Pocahontas," he told her, the name he most commonly addressed her by. She kissed his cheek. "My husband," she sighed happily. Often, when words failed them, the couple was happy to sit in contented silence, wrapped in the knowledge of their love for each other.

"I must tell you something, John," she said, later that night, as they lay in the bed in a tangle of arms and legs and suffused with emotions. Their intimacy was always a balance of passion tempered by tenderness.

"What is it?" he asked, kissing her along her collarbone.

"I knew today from the midwife that I am with child," she said, a happy grin spreading across her face.

They laughed and wept in their happiness and joyful disbelief.

Cruel illness had spared her, and now there would be new life as the spring slowly unfolded into a brilliant summer. Inwardly John thanked his god with a renewed faith—it was true, there was always new life in the spring.


End file.
